So Monday the grand-boys and I were out in the veggie garden (they think it's cool when it's empty like that) and here comes this little squeaking, ugly tortoise shell with a freakishly long tail, headed straight for us. I thought it was the neighbor's cat, and tired of their cats pooping in the flower beds, I pegged a pebble at her to make her go home. But she just wouldn't spook! Schultz finally chased her up a tree--any cat besides his foster cat is fair game. About that time, said neighbor came out. "No," he said, "It's not ours. We don't have any cats w/ tails." They only have manxes. Who poop in flower beds. You see why it was easy to resist up til now?
|This picture makes her look big, but she's a skinny wee thing...|
I figure, fine. This tiny orphan is likely to get eaten by the pit bull mixes across the street, and starve to death if she manages to escape them, so I'll put her in a crate and take her in to the animal shelter. We live out in the county, no dog or cat catchers out here. So I stood at the base of the tree, looked up into her big gold eyes and called to her. She climbed down the trunk...and into my heart.
Ridiculous, demanding little thing. Now I have cat hair. Now I scoop poop. But at that minute, I knew this cat was supposed to be here, and now it's too late to do anything but love her. Her name is Willie. (We already have a Waylon.) She and Schultz are in the process of agreeing to live together, and it's going surprisingly well. I'll get a picture one of these days when they finally end up sleeping in a pile on his dog-bed. It's inevitable.